by Farahad Zama
Coming to a halt in front of them, he said, “I don’t think we should have this wedding.”
“If that’s what you felt, Dilawar, you should have told me. I would have put it off for a bit. After all, the past couple of weeks have been very intense, what with your adventure and your father’s death.”
“I didn’t say that I wanted to delay the wedding, ammi-jaan. I said that we shouldn’t have this wedding at all.” Dilawar turned to Pari. “I am sorry, Pari. I’ve led you on and I apologise for that. You are entitled to be angry with me, but listen to me fully and, if you can, please forgive me.”
Dilawar looked away from them for a moment, seeming to stare at something out of the window. He turned back to them and faced his mother. “Ammi-jaan,” he said, “I don’t like girls.”
“Nonsense,” said Mrs Bilqis. “You get along very well with Nadira’s daughter. You said you liked Pari. Over the years, so many of your female classmates and cousins have told me that you really seem to understand them and genuinely like them.”
“Not that way, ammi-jaan. I like girls as friends, certainly. I just don’t want to marry a woman.”
“What do you mean, you don’t want to marry a woman? Who else would you marry? A cat? Or a boy?” She laughed at her own witticism and then stopped when nobody else responded.
Dilawar kneeled down in front of her and took her hand. “I think you have always known, ammi-jaan. I am gay. I don’t find girls attractive in that way.”
His mother pushed his hand away. “Don’t be silly,” she said, laughing shrilly. “It is just a phase you are going through. If you marry a nice girl like Pari, you will be cured. Though I don’t know whether she will marry you, now that you’ve revealed your disgusting perversion.”
“Even if I grant you that being gay is a perversion of every animal’s natural desire to procreate, it is no more disgusting than sex between a man and a woman, if you think about it. And it was not nice of us to keep a big secret like this from Pari and lure her into a marriage, was it? Some people might call it cheating.”
Mrs Bilqis drew herself up even straighter than usual and looked away from her son.
“Ammi-jaan, there is no cure, as you call it, for my condition, I am gay.” Turning to Rehman and Pari, he told them, “I wanted you to hear it too. That’s why I called you both over.” He faced his mother again. “It defines me, in the same way that being a woman defines you or Pari. I can hide it; I can push it into a far corner of my mind and marry a woman. I might even be able to have children. But I will never be happy and I will never be able to truly love my wife, so she will not be happy either. Is that what you want for me?”
“At least you won’t be committing a sin. Remember what the Quran says: If two men among you are guilty of lewdness, punish them both. If they repent and amend, leave them alone; for Allah is Oft-Returning, Most Merciful.”
Mrs Bilqis put a hand on his head and continued, “Whatever you have done so far has been in the passion of youth. Change your habits now and, as the Quran promises, you will be forgiven.”
“Ammi-jaan, I don’t really believe in God. I think we have one life here on earth and we have to live it in the best way that we can.”
Mrs Bilqis turned to her friend. “Nadira, a spirit, a djinn, has taken possession of him. Does your Baba have an amulet to exorcise him?”
Dilawar replied before Nadira could answer. “There are no spirits, Ammi-jaan. When I was a child, you used to say that Allah is aware of the path of every single ant in this creation. Do you think He is unaware of what I am? If you believe in God, then who do you think created me as I am? Maybe in places like London being gay is accepted and taken as normal, but here, to be gay is to be afraid. Afraid of exposure and dismissal from your job; scared of losing family and friends; forced to skulk on dark street corners and face the danger of physical assault. When we were kidnapped by Naxalites, the police searched for us and fought to free us. If I was beaten up in a gay encounter, I would not even dare to go to the police. Until a few days ago, I would probably have been thrown into a cell and blackmailed by the police themselves. This is not a lifestyle choice that I am making. I want to be like everybody else: wake up in the morning, go to the office, come home in the evening to a loved one and be happy. Instead, what do I face? Stares, sniggers, petty police extortion…I don’t do this for fun or to be lewd,” said Dilawar. Rising from his knees, he stood tall before them. “No, I do this because I am made like this. I can no more stop myself from being attracted to a man than a young woman can stop cooing and becoming broody when she sees a bonny baby.”
Mrs Bilqis gave a sob and Nadira hugged her. Dilawar turned away and stood facing the window. Pari looked, embarrassed, at Rehman. He shook his head slightly and going up to Dilawar, patted him on the shoulder.
“That was very brave of you,” he said.
Dilawar turned towards Rehman, his eyes shining. “Thank you,” he said. “I thought you might not want to touch me now that you know I am gay.”
Rehman smiled. “You haven’t suddenly turned into a high-voltage electricity line that I cannot touch you,” he said. “You are a good man today, the same as you were yesterday.”
Dilawar shook his head. “Not many people think like you, my friend. I myself kicked out Shaan, the man I loved most dearly, when people started making comments.”
Pari came up to them and said to Dilawar, “Can I have a word with you in private?”
“Of course.”
Rehman excused himself, while Dilawar took Pari out into the garden.
He said, “Are you angry with me?”
Pari shook her head. “No. But if it is easier for you and will help you, we can still get married.”
Dilawar looked at her in surprise. “But – ”
“I won’t interfere with your life. I already have a son and don’t need any more children.”
“But why?”
“I have a secret too. I am in love with a man I cannot marry. It might be less trouble for both of us if we are together. We can each – ”
Dilawar interrupted her. “Sorry, Pari. Two people hiding their truths do not a marriage make. Why can’t you marry the man you love anyway?”
“How can I love somebody else without betraying my beloved husband?”
Dilawar took Pari’s right hand in both of his. “Pari, Pari…” he said gently. “You loved your husband. You will always love him. You will not be unfaithful to him by finding happiness elsewhere now that he is no more.”
Pari shook her head, unconvinced.
“Did your husband truly love you as much as you loved him?”
Pari gazed into his eyes. She had to tip her head back to do so. “Of course,” she said simply.
“Then he will not have wanted you to live a desolate life by yourself. You are a young woman. Do you think his soul will be peaceful when he looks down on you from heaven and sees you lonely and sad?”
“No, but – ”
“He will rejoice if you are happy.”
“I am not sure…”
“I am certain,” he said.
Pari turned to go inside once more. Dilawar took hold of the edge of her sari as it fluttered towards him on the breeze. She stopped when she felt the cloth tightening around her.
“There is no reason why you cannot marry Rehman,” he said softly.
She turned swiftly back to him. “What?” she said, shocked.
“You are in love with Rehman, aren’t you?”
She nodded. “How did you know?”
“Apparently, all women in London want a gay man-friend, precisely because we know these things.”
“He is in love with Usha, the TV journalist. They were engaged to be married before she broke it off and he still pines for her.”
Dilawar smiled. “He might think he is in love with somebody else. But I can put my hand on my heart and guarantee to you that he actually loves you.”
“What kind of love is it when he doesn’t
even know about it?”
“I loved Shaan too, but I still paid more attention to comments from people whom I don’t even know. Rehman’s love for you is just under the surface. One small pinprick from you and it will be exposed.”
“I am not sure that I can do it.”
“What is that quote in Hamlet about not doubting your love?” he asked.
“Doubt thou the stars are fire; Doubt that the sun doth move; Doubt truth to be a liar; But never doubt I love,” she quoted unfailingly.
“Exactly,” said Dilawar. “Love can move mountains. You only have to get him to reveal to himself a truth that already exists. Of course you can do it.”
“And what about you?” said Pari. “Why should I follow your advice if you yourself don’t believe in it?”
Dilawar looked at her, shocked, for a moment. “You are right,” he said softly. “I have to be brave and show Shaan that I am worthy of his love.” He gazed into her eyes and smiled. “Thank you, friend, for showing me what to do.”
Pari smiled back at him. “You are a brave man. You showed that in the forest and now in your own house.”
She turned to go, but he stopped her again. “I was really looking forward to being a good father to Vasu. I am sorry that can’t happen now. But can I continue to be involved in his life?”
“Of course,” she said quickly. “You will always be his special Bombay-uncle, The rich, slightly disreputable one who shows him the ways of the big, bad world.”
Another smile lit up his face and it was he who turned away. “Thank you,” he said and he sounded as if he were choking up.
Twenty-two
In the past week, dark monsoon clouds had rolled in over the Bay of Bengal, and the weather had gone from searing to merely boiling. There had been a few showers, but more rains were needed to break summer’s fevered grip.
It was five in the evening and Mrs Ali stood at the gate watching the world go past. She had just watered the plants from the well in the front yard. The rains had raised the water level and even though it was still very early in the rainy season, Mrs Ali felt confident that the well was safe from running dry for another year.
A thin, wiry man in his thirties walked up to her. He was wearing a shirt that appeared to be new, but he had an old panchi wrapped around his waist and a towel around his head like a villager. Mrs Ali noticed that he was wearing brand new flip-flops with blue rubber straps, even though his feet appeared rough, as if he had been walking barefoot all his life. “Namaste, amma!” he said, raising his hand to his forehead in a respectful greeting. “Do you need fresh milk? I can arrange for a buffalo to come here daily and milk it for you, madam.”
Mrs Ali was tempted. There was something satisfying about warm milk from a lowing buffalo that was lost when it was delivered in a chilled packet. And it brought back memories of the time when she had been younger and Rehman had been a growing boy, when they used to get their milk in just such a fashion. But then she reconsidered and shook her head. Full-fat milk was very rich and none of them needed it now – in fact, the doctor was always urging her to lose weight and she was sure it wasn’t good for her husband or Rehman either. “We don’t need it,” she said.
“No problem, amma. My four buffalos are almost booked up anyway. I just need one or two more houses.”
“Four?” said Mrs Ali and raised her eyebrows. “You are a rich man!”
The man laughed. “May your mouth always speak the truth, amma. I am just leasing the buffalos from a farmer. My name is Sivudu. I’ve recently moved here from my village and, by God’s grace, things are going well so far. My daughter is even going to school.”
A plump woman came towards them, walking with a waddle that spoke of years of easy living. “Namaste,” she said to Mrs Ali, and turned to Sivudu. “Did I hear you right? Can I get fresh milk in this city? My grandchildren think it comes from a plastic sachet and not from buffalos or cows.” She patted her forehead with a handkerchief. “We live on the second floor next door. Go upstairs and tell the lady there that I sent you.”
Sivudu nodded and left, his flip-flops flapping.
“I moved in recently with my son and his family,” the woman said. “I heard that your son was kidnapped by the Naxalites.”
Mrs Ali had never seen her before. “Yes,” said Mrs Ali. “It was very worrying at that time, but it has been almost a month now and we are just trying to forget the whole thing.”
Mrs Ali did not ask how the lady knew about Rehman’s adventure. She would have been more surprised if there was somebody in the neighbourhood who had not heard of it.
“Where are you from?” she asked.
“We are originally from Guntur district,” said the lady. “But we were transferred from city to city while my husband was in service. Now that my husband is no more, I left our ancestral house in the village and have come here to be with my son.”
“What else are children for, if not to look after their parents in their old age?” said Mrs Ali.
The old lady sighed. “That’s what I have always believed and I looked after my own mother-in-law but youngsters nowadays don’t have the same sense of duty.”
This tickled Mrs Ali’s ear for gossip. There was surely a story here.
“Oh,” she said. “Is your daughter-in-law giving you trouble?”
“As soon as I came, she left the kitchen to me entirely. I have to cook all three meals every day. Then she complains that I use too much oil and make the food too spicy. I don’t know what kind of bland food she was used to, but my son is so thin and my grandson is so fussy about food.”
Mrs Ali nodded in understanding.
The old lady continued, “You have a lovely house here. I am not used to living in a flat, you see. Everything is so cramped. I like to have a basil plant growing out the front so that after my prayers I can water it. How can you do that if you are two floors above the ground? And my daughter-in-law gets angry if I ring the bell when I pray in the morning.”
“Yes, I can see that it is difficult. You still seem quite healthy. Why don’t you go back to your house in the village? I am sure that you could hire a servant to help you. The children will respect you more when you are independent and they will treat you better.”
“You are right,” said the old lady. “I’ve been thinking about it myself, to be honest.”
The maid Leela came down the readjust then for the evening shift. Seeing the two ladies together, she said, “Did you know each other?”
Mrs Ali said, “No, not really. I was just standing here and this lady was good enough to ask after my son.”
“She is the mother-in-law of the lady in the second-floor flat where I work,” Leela said, pointing next door.
“Oh!” said Mrs Ali, understanding. “You are from that household. Is your daughter-in-law’s name Swaroop?”
“Yes.”
It was the very flat where Leela had to work before going to Mrs Ali’s house, causing such disruption to her morning routine. It was also Swaroop who had made those accusations against Rehman and Pari.
Mrs Ali turned to the old lady. “Please come inside. Why are you standing by the doorstep like a stranger?”
The two women went through the verandah, where Aruna and Mr Ali were busy working, and into the living room.
“Would you like tea or coffee?”
Leela was surprised, but it wasn’t her place to comment on what her mistresses did.
A few minutes later, the two ladies were sipping tea.
“I am not one to gossip,” said Mrs Ali. “But have you noticed that your daughter-in-law keeps meeting her friends for, what do you call them…yes, kitty parties?”
“Yes,” said Mrs Raji, for that was her name. “Yesterday so many women came over and they were eating and drinking all afternoon. It disturbed my siesta.”
“Some of these modern women do that. They get into these competitions about who has spent the most on a holiday or who has the best car and so on. And then they nag
their husbands until they give in and spend the money.”
“It was not like that in our days,” said Mrs Raji. “We met only our neighbours or family members and we used to talk about how to save money, not how to spend it.”
“Exactly,” said Mrs Ali. “But we cannot really blame them. They watch television and movies and get influenced by what they see. It is up to us, as elders, to guide them on to the right path.”
Mrs Raji sighed. “That is easier said than done. My daughter-in-law refuses to listen to me. How can I guide her in anything?”
“It is not easy. But they say that anything worthwhile takes time to achieve. How long have you been here?”
“About a month.”
“See, that’s not enough. You are talking about habits that have been established over years. How can you change them in days?”
“There is something in what you say.”
“Of course there is. It will mean difficulties for you. Instead of living a quiet life in your own house, you will have to put up with your daughter-in-law’s tantrums as well as cook for the whole family. It is totally necessary for the sake of your son and your grandchildren.”
“Yes, but – ”
“I totally understand if, at your age, you think that your son and his family will have to manage by themselves, make their own mistakes and do the best they can. After all, you have worked yourself to the bone over the years and now you deserve a calm, retired life.”
“There is no retirement for a woman when her family’s future is at stake.”
“Spoken like a true Indian mother,” said Mrs Ali, taking a delicate sip from her cup. “If you ever feel the need for some relaxation, drop in for tea and a chat.”
